


the unconscious conscious

by visiblemarket



Category: Constantine (TV)
Genre: Cults, First Time, Id Fic, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Sex Magic, comic canon call backs but more so in the next part, i wouldn't call this dub con exactly but it's maybe a little iffy so, implied/references antisemitism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:27:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23506114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/pseuds/visiblemarket
Summary: Chas grabs at John’s chin, and tips his head up. John stills, instantly, and stares up at him with soft eyes."You ever done this before?"It’s a testament to John’s tense, anxious energy that he doesn’t crack a joke, or smirk, or feign offense — just shakes his head. "Not like this," he admits.
Relationships: Chas Chandler & John Constantine & Mary "Zed" Martin, Chas Chandler/John Constantine
Comments: 24
Kudos: 98





	1. Chapter 1

“It’s not working,” Chas hears himself point out, as John scowls and tosses the amulet he’s been spinning over a dusty gas station map at the wall.

It leaves a mark — a sharp, grey gash — before falling to the thin brown carpet with a thud. They’ll definitely get billed for that, if not the persistent, pervasive scent of the cigarettes John’s been smoking all day. 

“Of course it’s not bloody working,” says John, running a nervous hand through his hair. “She doesn’t want to be found."

“Of course she wants to be _found_ ,” Chas says. 

“Oh, you’re sure of that, are you?” 

"Why wouldn’t she?"

John shrugs, not meeting his eyes. "Family’ll do weird things to a person."

"They're _not_ her family." 

John does look at him then — dark eyed and vicious, smirking a little. "And we are?" 

"John—"

John shakes his head, goes back to the map. Cigarette back in his mouth, shoulders in a tight, anxious line. "Fucked, is what we are," he says, more to himself than Chas. Looks up again. "Nothin' we can do about it now, I s'ppose."

“There has to be something —“

"Oh, right, somethin', of course. _Something_..." John gives a quick, bitter laugh and takes another long drag from his cigarette. Snuffs it out, shaking his head. "Only thing I’m doin' right now is goin' to bed."

"Are you seriously—"

"No, I'm doin' it for a laugh," he says. "Yes, seriously. Give it another bloody go tomorrow, all right, but for now—"

"You—“

"They need her!" he snaps, turning to glare at Chas. “They need her, all right? Need her alive, or near enough, till the next new moon, whenever that’ll be."

Chas pulls out his phone to check, and John huffs and collapses into a chair. 

"Three days from now," Chas says, still working through the possibilities of _or near enough_ , but relaxing, a little. 

"Right, then, three more bloody days," John says, waving his hand. "Give it another go tomorrow, but for now—“

"John—"

"Get some _rest_ , Chas," he says. "Gonna have to drive us out of here tomorrow, yeah? Prefer you didn’t fall asleep at the wheel."

"Are you—"

John gives an impatient, thoughtless wave before ducking over the map on the table, smoothing it out. No, then, he won’t go to sleep, and he’ll spend the night trying to get blood from a stone, and Chas’ll be the one who has to put up with his sleep deprived petulance tomorrow morning. 

_Great_ , he thinks, and gives in to the temptation to throw his hands up in frustration before leaving, and slams the door between their rooms shut as he goes.

*

Falling asleep takes longer than he’d hoped — he can see the light from John’s room from beneath the door, and he can hear John pacing, talking to himself, and throwing something else.

He should go back in there, he thinks.

He should do what he can, force John into bed if he needs to, make sure _he_ gets at least a few hours in himself, if only to make sure he’s _conscious_ for whatever disaster the next day will bring.

He _should_ — 

“Chas,” he hears, not fully awake yet.

It’s John, obviously. 

It’s John, in his room, close enough that Chas can smell the cigarettes. He turns toward the sound. “What?"

There’s a pause, and a breath. Chas feels the bed shift as John sits down next to him and flips on the lamp on the night stand.

Chas opens his eyes — John is pale, looks exhausted, dark eyes intent. His hand’s heavy on Chas’ chest. 

Chas sits up, worry spiking through his own exhaustion, his own background concern for Zed, his general confusion at having John in his room like this. _What’s wrong?_ he would say, if the answer wasn’t entirely obvious.

"What is it?" he says instead, and John takes a breath, shakes his head, and shuts his eyes. Chas brings his hand up to rub at his eyes and tries to focus — whatever this is, he’s not getting back to sleep for a while. "John?"

"Can’t sleep," he says, quick and quiet, like he’s ashamed of it.

Chas sighs, starts to scoot over: it won’t the first time he and John share a bed, or the last. It’s fine: Chas hasn’t slept next to someone else in a while, but still hasn’t gotten used to sleeping alone, and John'll just curl up on his side, turned away from him, and go straight to sleep, like he always has. 

John grabs his shoulder before he can move too far, tucks his face against Chas’ neck, and suddenly they're chest to chest. 

Chas can feel him breathing — quick, nervous breaths — and finds himself wrapping an arm around John’s waist, hugging him, drawing him closer.

John's been outside, Chas realizes: he smells like the night air, and his hands and cheeks are cool to the touch.

It’s strange.

It’s not like he’s never been this close to John before, it’s not like John’s ever been reluctant to touch him. But this — it’s never been like _this_ before: John’s tense and quiet and careful, nuzzling gently at the side of his neck before pulling back, ducking his head.

"I need you," he says, soft and simple.

Glances up at Chas, clearly expecting a response, but all Chas can manage is: "What?"

John sighs, exhausted and annoyed, and Chas notices — his hand has slid up from Chas’ shoulder to the side of Chas’ neck. He rubs his thumb along the bare skin of Chas' throat. "I need your help," he says. 

"With what?" says Chas, confused — this can't be what he thinks it is, can't mean what he thinks it means. Not _now_. Not now, all of the sudden, for no reason. 

John rolls his eyes, takes Chas' face in his hands, and kisses him. 

It's not the first time they've kissed — it's not the first time he's felt it, the inexorable, dark undertow catching him up, threatening to drown him, to leave him crushed in its wake.

Chas pulls back while he still can. "What are you doing?" he says, wincing at how he sounds — shocked, and vulnerable.

_What's it look like?_ He expects John to say, sharp and condescending, rolling his eyes again. Giving up on this all together, if Chas is going to keep being _thick_ about it.

"I want you," John says instead, simple and sincere. "Can't stop thinking about you."

"John," he says, soft, and John nods to himself, not quite meeting Chas’ eyes.

"Yeah?"

Chas sighs. “Why now?"

John looks at him for a moment. _Why not_ , he seems about to say.

He looks away again, and takes a breath instead. "I need to—focus. Need to channel my — need you to help me. I'm not strong enough, can't break through whatever they're doin' to block me. The—" John grimaces. "The energy of two people, workin' together, should help amplify—“

"This is about magic," Chas says, flat, as a strange, roiling ache hits his chest. Disappointment, he realizes: less in John than in himself, for having believed this would ever be about anything else.

"This is about finding Zed," John snaps and then, sighing, concedes: "With magic."

_Get someone else_ , Chas wants to say. _Go jerk off._

_Stop doing this to me, stop treating me like this, stop using me like this, stop stop stop—_

"What do I have to do?" he says, already exhausted.

John blinks. "You don't _have_ to—"

Chas reaches out, wraps his hand around the back of John's neck, and hauls him in. "You come in here," he says, low and bitter, almost — but not quite — too angry to notice the way John sucks in a breath as his pupils go wide. "You say you want me. You say you need me. You lie to—"

"I _do_ need you," John says, sharp. 

Chas lets go of him. “Then use me,” he says.

_That’s what you’re good at_ , he doesn’t add, but not for lack of trying: John leans into him again before he can, and kisses him full on the mouth. 

It’s not bad. He can admit that much — John’s mouth is warm and strangely familiar, though he doesn’t taste as much of cigarettes as he does in Chas’ memories. His hands run almost desperately through Chas’ hair, and he turns his head, seeking a better angle.

Chas’ own hands are in his lap. He can’t quite bring himself to touch John — doesn’t know how much he should, how much John would want him to, how much it might be needed for whatever this is.

John presses into him as he shifts, swinging his knee over Chas’ lap and straddling him. 

“John,” he says, in the brief bare instant when they separate.

“Yeah?” says John, sounding soft and stunned — his eyes are half hooded, and his hands are still running through Chas’ hair. He’s shifting, slightly, rubbing against Chas’ cock. 

“What do you — what should I—“ he feels John’s breath catch and their noses bump together. Chas shuts his eyes. “What do —“ he tries to force a smile, tries to sound as amused as he can. Because it’s fine. It’s just sex. People have sex that doesn’t mean anything all the time. And this could mean something — could mean helping John, could mean finding Zed. He’s not even angry anymore: it is fine. It is normal. It’s John’s usual half-assed attempts at real magic and his even more usual tendency to drag Chas into it.

“What do you need me to do, here?"

John stills. Chas opens his eyes to find John dropping his own gaze as he inhales, exhales, and then shakes his head. “You — lie back."

Chas does, slowly, lets his hands find their way to John’s thighs. John takes another slow, deliberate breath, and sits up. Dips his head back and glares up at the ceiling. Chas finds himself staring at the line of his throat, wondering what it’d be like to kiss him there, to trail his lips along John’s jaw, taste the dark shadow of his stubble. 

"Can I ride you?" says John, to the ceiling. “I mean,” he sighs again, and sits back. "Like this, yeah?” he says, waving a hand between them. 

"If you want," Chas answers, quiet, half-convinced John’s going to throw it back at him — _not about what I want, mate_, he can almost hear John sneer — but John just takes another breath and nods to himself. 

Chas watches as John pulls his tie apart, glaring at his own hands as they fumble with the first few buttons of his shirt.

Chas knows better than to find it charming — it might not even be genuine, it’s hard to imagine that The Great John Constantine’s ever had trouble getting his shirt off before — but he can’t help it. Chas’s always had a weakness for this side of John, has always felt most protective of him when he’s like this, nervous and brittle, trying but failing to hide it. 

Chas reaches up, eager to help ground him and desperate to find something to do with his hands. 

John freezes again, but lets Chas finish unbuttoning his shirt. Sucks in a breath — sharp and shocked — when Chas presses a palm against his stomach, and curls the other around his side. He shudders a little, and Chas looks up at him, trying to catch his eye, trying to gauge his reaction.

“Should I—“ Chas says, starting to pull his hands away. John shakes his head and grabs at his wrists, pulling Chas' hands back in place. 

“You can—“ John says, quick, sharp enough Chas almost misses the quavering breath he takes before continuing. “You can touch me. If you. If you’d like."

Chas huffs. _Oh, yeah, if_ I’d _like_. 

He slides his hand down John’s stomach instead. Unfastens the button above John’s fly — no belt right now, which strikes Chas as strange, though he couldn't say why — and pulls the zipper down as well. 

John’s not wearing anything underneath. 

Chas is less surprised at that — not the first time he’s discovered it, even — but he tries not to dwell on it. John is hard already, straining out from the opening of his pants, and Chas figures he might as well get it over with — the longer he waits, the more he’ll overthink it.

He curls his fingers around John’s cock. A slow, careful stroke, a cautious exploration — he's nervous about doing more, guilty about feeling nervous, but still curious, still determined. Tightens his grip, drags his fingers along it again.

John makes another wet, choking sound. 

“Wait,” he says, and sits back. “Gonna—“ he swallows. “You should..." He shifts, practically rolling onto his back. Kicks off his trousers the rest of the way, leaving him entirely naked now, skin flushing red in odd spots along his chest, stark beneath the mostly familiar tattoos — there’s a few new symbols here and there, a reminder that it’s been a while since Chas’s seen him shirtless and not covered in blood. 

John takes a low, shaky breath, and gives an almost comical sort of throat clear as he taps nervously at his own recently bare thighs. 

Chas swallows a nervous laugh of his own, and pulls off his t-shirt, pushes down the faded boxer shorts. 

Looks up again, to find John staring. 

“What?” he says, resisting the temptation to try and cover himself again — it’s nothing John hasn’t seen before, and the minute he shows weakness about it John’ll never let him live it down — and stares right back at him instead.

John blushes.

Chas lets out a breath and leans back, till he’s siting up against the headboard. “Come here,” he says, low. Wants to sound forceful, confident, or at least like he’s somewhat in control of the situation. It’s the sort of thing John likes, or so Chas has always imagined.

John’s reaction doesn’t exactly prove him wrong: his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and he quickly shuffles over on his knees with very little of his usual performative insouciance. Chas reaches for him — wraps his hand around the back of John’s head, and pulls him into a kiss. 

John kisses back, pressing up against Chas' chest, shuddering again when Chas drops a hand to John’s side. He grabs at Chas' shoulders and swings a leg over Chas’ lap again.

Pulls back, just a little, as he reaches over and retrieves something from the pockets of his crumpled pants. 

A packet of condoms and a small bottle of lube, and Chas swallows a nervous laugh of his own. "You came prepared," Chas says, trying for playfulness, sincerely relieved John's thought this far ahead — he can’t remember the last time he’s used a condom, much less bought one. 

“You’ve no idea,” John says, low. Gives Chas' cock another slow, careful stroke. Reaches out with the other, wraps his fingers around Chas' wrist and guides his hand back and around.

Chas gets the picture.

Presses one finger inside of him, slow and careful. Unnecessary, in the end: John’s loose and wet around him, takes another finger easily. 

Chas swallows. "You—“ he starts to ask, and stops as John nods, swift and distracted, grabbing at Chas’ shoulder as he takes a long, deep breath and shuts his eyes. Chas presses another finger into him and John lets out a sound — low and pleased — then bites at his bottom lip, as if trying to keep it in.

Chas finds himself staring, finds his heart quickening, his cock twitching in anticipation — he’s flattered, is all, that he’s having any kind of effect on John. That John’d taken the time to prepare for this, on his own, for whatever reason. That he’d wanted to be ready for it, in case Chas said yes — that he’d been that sure Chas’d say yes, a part of Chas hisses, but it’s easy enough to ignore. 

John sways toward him and Chas reaches up with his free hand, cradles the back of John’s head, moves to pull him closer.

John tenses, and pulls back. Opens his eyes again, looks straight into Chas' for a moment. “Wanted to —“ he grimaces, eyes flickering down. “Wanted to be quick about it."

The small glowing bubble of his vanity pops, and Chas blinks. “Good…good thinking," he says, weakly, dropping his own gaze, dropping his hand from the back of John’s head. Reaches for the condoms; pulls his fingers out from John’s ass, and tries not to care about the fleeting but obvious wince straining John’s features.

Chas frowns but looks to the mattress beside them, finally spotting the condoms and lube, finding them just out of reach. 

"Chas," John breathes, and Chas barely has time to lift his head before John is kissing him again, wrapping an arm around the back of Chas' neck and pressing himself tight against Chas’ chest. 

Chas lets his hand slide down to John’s hip, steadying him as the kiss deepens and he feels John rubbing up against his stomach — hard and leaking, leaving warm, wet trails against Chas' skin, making soft, needy sounds into his mouth as they kiss.

Chas reaches for him, wraps his fingers around John’s cock, and John jerks back with a gasp. 

"Wait," he says, ducking his head. "Wait, I— can’t, till you —"

"John—"

John looks back up at him, dark eyes heavy, lips wet and lush. "You’re not..."

"What?" Chas finds himself asking, again. John lets out a sharp, almost hysterical laugh, and glances down again, pointedly. 

_Oh_ , Chas realizes, feeling himself blush.

"Sorry—" Chas starts, as John snaps. "Don’t be bloody—"

They both quiet, and stare at each other again. John looks — strange. Strangely pale, as he bites at his bottom lip. Guilty, Chas realizes. Something settles in his chest, warm and cloying — he’d have to be an idiot to think it meant anything, and yet.

"I should —" John says, shaking his head, as he shifts, and begins to pull away. "Christ, I’m such a—"

Chas grabs at John’s chin, and tips his head up. John stills, instantly, and stares up at him with soft eyes.

"You ever done this before?"

It’s a testament to John’s tense, anxious energy that he doesn’t crack a joke, or smirk, or feign offense — just shakes his head. "Not like this," he admits.

Chas sighs. "You think it’ll work?"

John lets out a breath. "Dunno," he says, achingly honest. “Had to try something, yeah? Figured it was worth a go."

Chas nods. "Okay," he says, and reaches down.

"Okay?" John says, blinking, and then dropping his gaze. “Oh. Oh, right, I..."

Seems to be watching Chas' quick, artless strokes, and Chas pauses. He’s never worked great under pressure. He’s about to tell John as much — less an apology than an explanation — when he feels John’s fingers brush against his own. 

He drops his gaze. John hesitates — his fingertips trace along the Chas' hand for a moment, quick and uncertain, before he wraps his hand around Chas fist and squeezes. 

"Let me," he says, soft, and Chas — against his better judgment — does. Drops his hand to John’s thigh, and takes a breath as John tightens his grip around Chas' cock. John glances up at him. "Close your eyes," he says, seemingly brisk and unemotional, and Chas almost misses the quick, nervous twitch of his mouth. 

"Why?" Chas says, already intoxicated by the friction of John’s palm as it drags along his skin.

"Easier to..." John’s eyes flicker up at him and then down again. "Easier to think of who— of whatever you need, to—"

Chas swallows a laugh, or chokes on it, technically. John’s hand pauses and he looks up. 

"You," Chas says. "I’m with— I’m gonna—" he doesn’t bother holding back a moan, and John's mouth twitches again, presaging the inevitable smirk this time, as their eyes meet. 

"Right," he says, and looks down. "There we are," and he keeps stroking at Chas' erection as he reaches over with his other hand, and retrieves the condoms.

Rips the packaging open with his teeth, and rolls his eyes when Chas opens his mouth to scold him. Chas doesn’t even get the words out before John’s slipped the latex over his cock with practiced, casual ease. 

"Slide down a bit."

Chas does, settling back down against the mattress. John shifts back as well, till he’s straddling Chas’ hips. Reaches back, fingers curling around Chas' cock again. 

Chas watches him — wonders if he should lend a hand, guide himself into John’s body — but John’s lining himself up before Chas can even try.

Getting it over with, Chas thinks, quick and cruel, but the feeling of John sliding down onto his cock is — distracting, to say the least. 

He’s warm, and slick, and tight, despite having prepared himself, despite Chas' quick, nervous fumbles. He inhales, slow and deep, and flexes his hips, taking Chas even further into himself. Trembles, just slightly, as he bottoms out, and exhales, letting his head fall back as he does.

Staring at the ceiling again, and Chas takes the opportunity to study him, carefully, as if for the first time. It is, in a way — the first time he’s seen him like this, the first time he’s — Christ — the first time he’s been inside of him while he’s looking. Chas takes as quiet a breath as he can and looks at him: at John's torso, the familiar old tattoos and the one or two new, incomprehensible shapes he hasn’t seen before. The rise and fall of his chest, the eager tension of his hips.

Chas reaches out to touch him again — has to, feels almost painfully distant from him, strange as it might seem, being balls deep and all. Keeps one hand wrapped around John’s thigh — John lets out a small, impatient whine but doesn’t move — and slides his other palm up the center of John’s chest. John's hips twitch, and then sway — he rises up on his knees just enough to be able to slide back down, slow at first, picking up speed and confidence as Chas wraps his hand around the nape of John’s neck.

"Look at you," Chas hears himself say, as he does: John is flushed, panting, riding Chas' dick with shameless, impatient abandon. John smiles — lopsided and trembling — as he grabs at Chas’ wrist and repositions Chas' hand around the new, pitch black sigil curling over his hip.

"Is that for—“ 

John nods, swift and thoughtless. 

"Should I—"

"Jus'," John pants. "Jus' keep your hand there." 

And Chas does, gripping John’s hip, feeling it flex with each thrust — runs his thumb along the black curling lines, wondering what’ll happen. Doesn’t know if he expects much — a glowing pulse light shooting through John when he comes or something — but soon loses the ability to expect anything at all, to think of anything at all except for how John feels around him, slick and hot and tight.

“Does that feel good?” John pants. “Do you like that? Do you want me to—"

“Does it matter?” Chas hears himself say, sharper than he should. 

John stills. Pulls back, looks Chas in the eye. “It matters. It matters to me."

“John—"

“I want you to —" 

Chas finds himself surging forward and rolling John onto his back. Pumping into him, reckless and thoughtless and rougher than he’d like. Keeps his hand on John’s hip for no other reason than to steady him, buries his face against John’s neck, and thrusts his cock as deep into John’s body as it can go.

John lets out a sound — low and wet, almost pained — and presses his cheek against the top of Chas’ head. Chas kisses him, and John comes, hot and unexpected, across his chest. Chas follows, panting into the curve of John’s shoulder, drowning in the scent of cigarettes and sweat, and barely even notices the warm electric buzz of sensation pulse against the palm of his hand. 

*


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**John will come for her.** _
> 
> _No he won’t — John had barely wanted her around in the first place, let her wear him down seemingly out of boredom, and may in fact be glad to be rid of her and her constant judgment and expectations and liabilities. Even if he’s not — and even if he could find her — John Constantine’s not exactly the type to stick his neck out by wandering into an impenetrable compound manned by members of a doomsday cult._
> 
> _**Chas will** _ **make _John come for her._**

It’s been a few days, she thinks.

It’s hard to tell. They keep the lights on — keeping her disoriented, she knows that trick — and who knows how long she’d been unconscious before waking up. 

Well, she’s awake now, there’s no doubt about that. None of her dreams are ever quite this….white.

White sheets on a thin mattress against a white wall. White dress — thin but formless, long sleeves, hem down past her knees. Short white socks, she almost laughs, her feet had always gotten cold, her mother had—

The door. The door is white too, except for a pane of glass at eye level, which is clear, and the thin black line demarcating the slot where meals will show up, once in a while. 

They’re never very good. Bland, boiled chicken, buttered toast, a sliced apple, a glass of water. No utensils, only plastic plates and glasses and — of course — a white paper towel . 

Not what she’s used to anymore. Chas’ low laugh in the kitchen, John’s performative grumbling at the table. The clang of dishes in the sink. The smell of freshly baked bread. 

She sits up. Leans against the wall, brings her knees up to her chest. The beat of her heart in her ears like the ticking of a clock. 

Counting down. 

*

Another day, maybe — she’d slept again, one arm across her eyes, hiding from the bright white light above. 

No food yet, but she’s waiting. If she can talk to someone, she can — 

_What?_ She thinks. _Negotiate?_ Laughs to herself, and knocks her head back against the wall. 

*

A flash of color in the glass, and the slot creaks. She jumps up, rushing for the door. Pressing her hands against it, trying to peer up through the pane of glass.

“Stand back,” comes a voice. Quavering, and female. _Of course female_ , she thinks — everyone here had a job to do, and it was always the women’s to do all the actual _work_. She doesn’t recognize the voice, but why would she? It’s been years. They probably wouldn’t recognize her, either.

She stands back. 

A tray slots through — oatmeal, with raisins, and a small carton of milk. 

“Thank you,” she says, polite as she can. Hating herself for it — _let me out let me out let me out_ , she should scream, should push the tray back into the ribs of whoever’s on the other side of the door. What’s the worst they can do? They need her alive, for at least a few days longer. 

_But not conscious_. Ugly, but true. She sighs, and takes the tray.

“You’re welcome,” comes a voice, quick and sharp, and she almost drops the tray. She look back at glass pane, just fast enough to see a flash of red hair disappear out of her sphere of perception.

*

_John will come for her_.

No he won’t — John had barely wanted her around in the first place, let her wear him down seemingly out of boredom, and may in fact be glad to be rid of her and her constant judgment and expectations and liabilities. Even if he’s not — and even if he _could_ find her — John Constantine’s not exactly the type to stick his neck out by wandering into an impenetrable compound manned by members of a doomsday cult. 

_Chas will_ make _John come for her_.

Chas — Chas may be the first true friend she’s ever had. John’d known what it was to be scared — to find emptiness at best and cruelty at worst where he should have found love and security. But Chas had known what it was to be _watched_ — to be judged and cut down and forced into a cage too small for him, to grow up that way, to be truly desperate for a normal life and to do whatever he could to achieve one. And Chas could fight and scrape and claw with the best of them, but he was careful with delicate things and loved whole-heartedly. Chas would want to come for her — would hector John into it, would do what he could, but John — she sighs. 

John wouldn’t take the risk.

*

“You can talk to me,” she says, as another plate of bland white food slides through the door. 

“I can’t,” comes the response, automatic and slightly awed. “You are The Vessel.”

_I’m not. Not Mary or Maria or the Mother or The Vessel. I’m just **me** , and I always have been_.

“Not yet,” she says, trying for a gentle, self-deprecating tone. Wants to project resignation — no, acceptance, of her so-called glorious destiny. Nothing but utter brainless joy about her upcoming fate. Maybe a hint of fear — she is human, after all — but beyond that, serenity. 

It works. The tray of food gets another, gentle push. “Eat,” comes the voice, softer the time.

“What’s your name?” she tries, because what harm will it do. Another moment of hesitation, and then:

“Hope.” 

She swallows a laugh at that — of course it is. “Hello, Hope,” she says. “Did we know each other before?”

“Not really,” says Hope. “But everyone knew you.”

Is that a hint of jealousy in her voice? Not the perfect serene follower after all, though that’s the thing — none of them are. There’s never been any purity, any real faith, just a collection of sycophants bound together by arrogance and ambition, preying on women too vulnerable to fight back.

_Do you want **this**?_ She wants to scream. _To be drugged and groomed and used up? Be my guest_. 

“I’m sorry,” she says instead, and honestly — she is. _There but for fortune_ …a simple, hard life in the middle of the desert, certain of her own insignificance and eventual, meaningless demise, just one more in a long chain of disposable bodies to be dispatched for the supposed glory of the chosen few. 

She takes the tray, and puts it down on the floor. Reaches out before she can stop herself, knuckles scraping against the sharp metal edge of the slot. Another set of hands — gloved, of course — finds hers. “Sister,” she says, desperately squeezing the other woman’s fingers, hopefully hard enough that she doesn’t notice the tip of her pinkie brushing against the uncovered sliver of skin at her wrist. “Sister. Will you help me?”

* 

They’re not completely stupid: they won't give her pencils, or a pen, or even cardboard sturdy enough to cause so much as a paper cut. The pad of colored construction paper and the stubby crayons she gets instead — recently used, by small, exuberant hands — give her pause. She had been one of very few children — five girls, four boys. Most like her, born from the reluctant, political union of local women and the upper echelon of American men. She’d imagined that there’d be even fewer now. 

She tries to sort through Hope’s memories — the few flashes she got, the path she took to the cell, the way out to the desert. Any sense of what’s beyond it, what side of the border they’re even on. She tries to get down as much as she can, as quick as she can — she doubts she’ll get another chance again, wonders if Hope’ll even be allowed back. 

*

“Is it true?” Hope whispers from the other side of the door.

She bites into a truly unimpressive sandwich — egg salad on white, soggy bread — and looks up. “Is what true?”

“They said you need to be…” her voice is even lower, almost awed. “ _Purified_. Before...”

_Ah_ , she thinks, and can’t help smirk. Well, by their standards, she probably does. 

She’s about to say so, when Hope speaks again, voice tinged with obvious, salacious interest. “Because you've lived in sin with a…a… sodomite?” she whispers, as if the word alone will earn her a rap on the knuckles, or worse. “And…a...” her voice drops again. “A _Jew_?"

“Oh, yeah," she says, smug, as if the sin in question had ever been anything more exciting than gluttony. “Yeah, at the same time." The gasp she expects from the other side of the door doesn’t come. Reckless, bitter, and bored, she adds: “Also with a woman, once.”

_There’s_ the gasp. She has to smile. 

And then, soft, almost wistful, come the words: “What was it like?”

Her smile fades. “Good,” she says, after a moment. “I was...happy." Not always, not even often but – enough, more than she ever would've been if she'd stayed, even if it would've been easier. 

She gets up, and walks over. "Whatever they do to me," she says, with a strength she doesn't quite feel. "Whatever happens. I lived." She slams her hands against the door. "I _lived_. For myself! Not for _you_ , not for my _father_ , _not for anyone else_!" She slaps her palms against the door again, and then sighs. "You don't know what that is."

There's a pause. And then, loud and clear: "No, I don't."

"And now you never will," she says, with as much sympathy as she can manage. "Are you really ready for the world to end?"

*

She sees it — senses it — the flex of a hip, the shallow shuddering breaths. She knows the sound — the feel of it, the shameful, voyeuristic, second-hand buzz she gets when this happens. And this does happen, not as often as it could maybe, but often enough that she now deeply regrets not bringing it up with John when she had the chance. Not like it would’ve embarrassed _him_ , after all, and now here she is, maybe four days away from certain death, and the last connection she’ll ever have to the world she’s about to be used to destroy is — _this_. The unmistakable, irritating, second-hand arousal, the shadow of steady thrusts and panted breaths. 

God, of course it would be _this_ , of course it would be John like this, screwing around rather than facing the consequences of his actions or making any effort to solve an actual problem. It’s her own fault, maybe, for expecting better of him.

Her hand moves of its own accord, the lines curling together and forming a strange, twisting symbol. Nothing John’s taught her, nothing she’s seen before, in John’s books or otherwise. It’s not even familiar enough for her to guess what it might mean. A hand appears, drawn by her own numb fingers, curled around the side of John’s torso — of course it’s John’s, she recognizes the other tattoos — thumb tracing the ends of the sigil. The arousal spikes — John must be close, might’ve even come already — and then bleeds into something else, a thick, cloying sense of satisfaction, cut with an edge of sadness. 

Then words — pitched low, low and desperate, hot on the side of her neck, a familiar voice — _Did it work — did it work — John did it_ — 

She gasps, and tosses the pad of paper aside.

Looks up at the ceiling, chest roiling with protective rage and _—_ and something else. Something bitter and cold and painful.

_Pendejo,_ she thinks, blinking tears from her eyes.

*

Her stomach drops, and then the lights go out.

She stands up. Doesn't move too quickly — a power surge is one thing, not entirely unusual, the consequence of relying on old generators and remaining off the grid. She's not going to get her hopes up.

She presses a hand to the door. Slides it down, to were she knows the slot is, and grips the edge. 

Pulls as hard as she can. 

Nothing happens. 

She takes a breath — sharp, short — as she begins to feel the panic rising. 

_—is this it are they coming will it hurt will she—_

Click.

"Mary?" comes the whisper, almost too soft to be heard over the creak of the hinges as the door eases open. 

"It's —"

"Shh," Hope hisses, pushing the door all the way open. "Come on."

She goes. The lights in the hallway are off, too. She gestures at them, squinting as her eyes begin to adjust. "Did you—"

"No," Hope says. "No, I just — I just thought — I — oh, god, what've I—"

"Hope," she says, reaching out, wrapping her hand around Hope's wrist. Flashes of — panic and annoyance and fear rush through her, but she doesn't let go.

"I thought it might be a sign," Hope says, sounding less sure about it by the second, and pulls out if her grasp. Then turns to her, and presses something into her palm. "Take it."

Her fingers close around a set of keys — to the compound's only van, probably. 

She could do it.

She could leave, now, run and keep running, find John and Chas again or not, get a good head start on anyone who'd come after her, and hope they'll give up eventually. 

And spend the rest of her life running, always looking over her shoulder, while more and more girls were taken to try and replace her. 

She reaches out and hands back the keys.

"Mary—"

"It's Zed," she says, calm, as she keeps her fingertips on the soft, warm skin of Hope's wrist. "Go."

"I can't —"

"Go," she says, in a voice she almost doesn't recognize. "Take the children. Take anyone else you trust. But go, now, before it's too—"

"But what about you?"

Zed narrows her eyes. "I'm going to go find my father."

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hopefully the next update will not take *mumble mumble four months mumble* to complete, but when it does it will a) be John POv and b) bring about _some_ closure all around, fwiw.


End file.
